


Halo

by nb_richie (shipit)



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst, Car Accident, Character Death, Drinking, Drunk Driving, Grief, M/M, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2019-03-04 15:54:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13368066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shipit/pseuds/nb_richie
Summary: Stan didn't even want to go to the party.





	Halo

**Author's Note:**

> Heyho warning for alcohol and drunk driving/drunk driving accident + some character death. Be careful babes

The music is so loud that Bill can feel it in his chest, ribs vibrating with every bass note. In his hand, a red plastic solo cup is half full of a shitty cocktail mixed from beer, vodka, and a Monster energy drink. It tastes like shit, but it gets him buzzed like nothing else. At his side, Stan looks uncomfortable and stiff despite the fact that they’ve been at the party for three, maybe four hours. His initial cup of wine and coke is practically untouched, his shirt still tucked into his pants pristinely. He grabs Bill’s arm and whispers in his ear, “I want to go home.” Bill laughs and holds his own cup to Stan’s lips, promising that they can go if after he loosens up a little, Stan still doesn’t want to stay. Four drinks and an hour later, Stan is tipsy enough to be giggly and more fun, but he still wants to leave.

“Bill, c’mon,” he whines, tugging at Bill’s flannel. “You said we can go.”

He doesn’t want to leave, but he did promise, so he begins leading Stan out. The two of them came together, but the rest of the losers carpooled in Beverly’s car, so they don’t have to worry about anyone else.

“Can you even drive? Maybe we should- maybe- maybe we should call like, an uber, or something.”

Bill smiles and kisses Stan’s cheek, something he wouldn’t be able to do if he was sober. His brain tries to yell at him for daring to be so affectionate with his roommate and one of his best friends- that he may or may not have been in love with for years- but winds up just grumbling discontentedly. The wonders of liquor save him from his anxiety for now. 

He and Stan find their way outside and down the road. Tons of cars are parked, some of which containing couples going at it or stoners hot boxing. Light and sound spills out of the huge frat house throwing the party. Someone threw up on the sidewalk and Stan makes a face, probably because he can’t walk in the street or on the grass, but he’s sure s hell not stepping in vomit. Before he can even say anything, Bill pushes in front of him and crouches with his arms out Stan giggles and jumps onto his back, wrapping his legs firmly around Bill’s waist and his arms around his neck. It’s hard to walk with him on his back, but Bill manages it as he searches for his car. It’s kinda far from the house, but he finds it by digging his keys out of his pocket and pressing the lock button so its headlights flash.

Gently lowering Stan to the ground, Bill presses the other button so they can actually get into the car. Stan pouts at the ride being over, and Bill wants to kiss him there too but he can’t. They both stumble into the car and, with some difficulty, get their seat belts buckled. It takes three or four tries to get the key into the ignition, while Stan stares at Bill with an unreadable expression. As he starts the car, he finally turns and looks at Stan.

“You’re so pretty,” he says. The words are slurred and bumble around in his mouth, but at least he’d finally gotten over his stutter by college. “Like, really, really pretty. Your hair’s like- like a halo, and your eyes are all, bright, and shit. And I want- I wanna kiss you. Can I kiss you?”

Stan’s smile is blinding, and he feels like he’s flying because he hasn’t been rejected. Instead, he’s leaning over the seat to kiss Stan. Their lips meet kind of messily but they quickly fix it and the kiss is probably the best one Bill’s ever had. It tastes like their shared last drink, some brightly colored cocktail with a gummy worm as a garnish. He reaches to thread his fingers through Stan’s hair, which is softer than it looks. 

“Wait- Bill-” Stan says, pulling as far apart as he can with Bill’s hands in his curls. “We’re drunk. Tomorrow we can talk.” He smiles as Bill lets go and returns his hands to the steering wheel so he can pull out of the spot. “I’m glad you made me come, because I’ve been wanting to do that for years.”

An uncontrollable smile breaks out on Bill’s face as he begins driving them home. The drive is half an hour, but Stan falls asleep almost immediately. He looks angelic, his hair fanning out around his head messily like a halo. Even imagining the possibility of them being more than friends makes Bill’s heart beat faster in his chest. Drunken pieces of poetry float in his head to be forgotten before he can write them down. 

It’s that combination of intoxication on alcohol and Stan that make Bill’s car start to swerve and his reaction time delay. When he finally realizes that they’re barrelling at almost ninety miles an hour straight towards the guard rail, it’s too late to do anything other than scream.

The crash seems to happen in slow motion.

Stan jerks awake at the screeching of the metal railing crumpling at the force of Bill’s car hitting it. He screams too. Going down the steep cliff, the car spins upside down, rightside up, upside down. Airbags deploy. Bill throws up all over himself somewhere in the middle. Windows shatter and scrape at their skin. At some point Stan stops screaming. 

Finally the car stops on its side at the bottom of the chasm. Unable to do anything other than let his head fall forward against the airbag, Bill shuts his eyes and goes to sleep.

 

Six months after the accident, Bill wakes up from another nightmare of Stan screaming. Stan has yet to forgive him, but it’s fine, because Bill can’t forgive himself. Like every morning since they started sharing a dorm in their Freshman year, Stan is already awake when he gets up. He glances at Bill over his shoulder from his desk with a wide eyed, mildly shocked expression before he looks back at his notes. Despite the early hour, he’s already completely dressed in khaki pants, a button up tucked into them, and pristine grey converse with double knotted laces. His hair is gelled out of his face already too, with the exception of a few loose strands. 

“I thought your first class wasn’t until seven?” Bill asks, rubbing the residual sleep from his eyes. According to his phone clock, it’s only five a.m. and he doesn’t have his literature class for a few hours, but he won’t be able to go back to sleep. 

“I’m studying for a test.” Stan turns a page and picks up one of his highlighters, a green one. “What’s your excuse?

He has no good response, so Bill just grunts and disentangles himself from the sheets to get dressed. If he’s out soon enough, he can catch Mike and Ben and Bev at the campus cafe having breakfast. They go every morning before class because Mike gets up really early and wants them all to have breakfast, and he and Ben have no trouble dragging Beverly out before the sun rises with kisses and sugary coffee. Every now and then, the other losers might drop by their breakfasts and it’s never as awkward as one would think. Ben, Bev and Mike are all sweet and engaging and they offer the best advice. 

Instead of getting dressed properly, like he used to before the accident, Bill just pulls on joggers and a sweatshirt. They hide the scars that litter his body from the broken glass. The only one he can’t disguise is the one on his temple that drags down to his cheekbone, skipping over his eye socket. He’s lucky it didn’t actually take his eye out. 

“I’m gonna go get breakfast, want anything?”

“No.”

With that, Bill grabs his phone and leaves.

No one else is really outside, not when the sun has yet to do much more than hover below the horizon and the air is stiff and cold. Not many stars are visible because of the reflection of the campus’ orange streetlights. His footsteps feel deceptively loud, echoing across the empty cement. In a way, it feels private to walk here and now. He could say or do anything, and it would be a secret between him and the sky. 

“I like Stan Uris,” he says on impulse, to no one in particular. “I want to kiss him. I want him to forgive me.”

The quiet air doesn’t give him a response, but he didn’t really expect one anyway. He walks for a few minutes more in silence before the bright lights shine into his face through the glass door and windows of the campus cafe. Only a few people are inside: a cashier is falling asleep where she stands, while at one table sits a young man staring at his computer surrounded by empty coffee cups. Beverly, Mike, and Ben make up the rest of the occupants. They all appear chipper and wide awake, an insane feat for most students on campus. 

Bill pushes the door inward and is met with a blast of warmth. He’s quick to shut the door again to prevent any of it escaping. The cashier mumbles her way through their exchange while Bill gets himself a coffee and an orange. When he looks up after she hands him his order, Bev waves him over to their table with a smile. The remnants of a croissant sit in front of her, flaky crumbs that make the kind of mess Stan gets upset about. Mike is still working his way through a waffle, it seems, occasionally holding up a bite for Ben to snatch without looking away from the laptop he’s writing on. Coursework can be a bitch, Bill supposes.

He pulls up a chair and sits with them. While both Mike and Bev greet him warmly, Ben merely grunts in acknowledgement. Whatever it is he’s working on, it has most of his attention, which likely won’t change no matter what happens. 

“You’re up early,” Bev remarks while Bill takes a sip of his coffee. It’s slightly burnt. “Nightmares again?” 

Nodding miserably, he sets the coffee back down to start peeling the orange. “I get why he won’t forgive me, but- but I really want him to. I miss the way we used to be.” 

Mike and Bev exchange an unreadable look.

“Maybe you should try talking to him about it?” Mike suggests.

“Or moving out and never looking him in the eye again.”

Ben glances at Bev out of the corner of his eye. “Babe, that isn’t very nice.”

Her only response is to stick her tongue out at him.

Maybe trying to talk to Stan isn’t that bad an idea, but how would he go about it? It isn’t like Bill can just walk up to him and say, “Hey, sorry that I drove us home drunk and wrecked the car and nearly got both of us killed and gave you a serious concussion.” Even if he phrases it better, that’s essentially what he has to say. Besides, how would Stan react? He might get angry at Bill, or upset, or give him the silent treatment. There are many ways that this whole thing could go wrong and leave them even worse off than they were before. If only Bill hadn’t been so fucking stupid.

“I might. Talk to him, I mean.”

Mike smiles and claps Bill on the shoulder before the conversation at the table settles back into easy banter about classes and the fact that Beverly and Mike keep stealing Ben’s clothes, including his favorite hoodie. The conversation makes Bill’s heart clench, thinking about having a playful argument like that with Stan that ends in a kiss and Bill letting him keep whatever he took. He wants the domesticity that thanks to his mistake, he may never get the chance to have. Still, he can start with talking to Stan about it. That could help, right? 

 

After hanging around a while longer with Bev, Mike and Ben, Bill decides to head back home. A few people have ventured out into the cold morning, the just-rising sun warming their faces and illuminating the puffs of steam from their breathing. Although it’s still as peaceful as his walk earlier, Bill feels less alone as he goes back to his dorm. There’s a while yet to go before he has to head to his first class, maybe enough to talk to Stan so that he doesn’t lose his nerve. 

When he finally gets to their dorm, the door is unlocked, meaning Stan hasn’t left. He always locks it three times just to be sure. Bill pushes the door open to find Stan sprawled out in bed, staring up at the ceiling and clutching a pillow to his chest the way a child would cling to a treasured stuffed animal after a nightmare. Upon hearing the door open and shut, he looks at Bill. His eyelashes are clumped together with tears, their paths still shiny on his cheeks.

“Stan? What’s wrong?”

“I’m scared,” he says simply.

Against his better judgement, Bill sits on the edge of Stan’s bed and lifts his head into his lap. He threads his hands into Stan’s hair almost automatically, slowly combing through it and curling tendrils around his fingers. “What’re you scared of?”

“Losing you.”

Of all things, he had to say that? The first thing Bill wants to say is how badly he doesn’t want to lose Stan either, and he won’t if they could just be normal, but he knows not to. All it’ll do it stoke the flames of a useless argument. He can’t think of a response other than to continue to card his hand through Stan’s hair in what he hopes is a soothing gesture.

“I’m not going too, right?”

“No, no, you’re not going to lose me Stan.”

They don’t say anything again for a while, electing instead to just enjoy each other’s company, something they haven’t done since before the accident. If only Bill hadn’t been drunk that night. He might be able to remember more details about their confessions besides the euphoria of knowing that his long-time crush is reciprocated. More importantly, he never would have gone over that guard rail. Stan wound up being okay, better off than Bill anyways, but the rift that it caused between them hasn’t died down. He wants it to, he really,  _ really _ wants it to.

For the first time in a while, he allows himself to take in how beautiful Stan actually his. His skin, soft and smooth and blemish-free seems to glow. His jawline and cheekbones are sharp, emphasized like the delicate arch of his pink lips’ cupid’s bow. Long eyelashes flutter against cheeks and leave small crescent shadows. Stan is pretty. He’s beautiful.

And before Bill knows it, he’s leaning down to kiss Stan for the first time sober. Those same sparks he swears he had felt are gone, but it leaves him feeling warm and sated. When he pulls back, Stan’s eyes are wide open and staring at him in shock. Millions of apologies come to the tip of Bill’s tongue, but he can’t say any of them because he isn’t sorry that they kissed.

“Stan, please say something,” he pleads.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Until they have to leave for class, they stay that way. Not talking, not kissing, just enjoying each other’s presence and comfort.

 

By the time Bill gets home after his evening class, Stan has showered again and changed into his pajamas: a pair of old sweatpants and a Guns n Roses shirt that Stan would never buy himself, so it must be stolen from someone. He’s back to his usual position of sitting at his desk, studying notes, and barely acknowledging Bill’s presence with a nod. 

“You want to order takeout for dinner?”

Stan shakes his head and highlights a passage of his notes. Things are back to the fucked up normal of the past few months.

Trying not to cry, Bill sets his stuff down, pulls out his phone, and pulls up the number of the cute girl in his lit class who he’s been pretending he didn’t notice was flirting with him. “Fuck you too then. I’m gonna go get some ass, and when-”

“Don’t.”

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t. We both know that you’re gay, Bill, you’re only doing that so that you don’t have to sit in here with me.”

Just because he’s right doesn’t mean he has to say it.

Bill rolls his eyes and sits down on his bed. Maybe one of the other losers is free, and he could hang out with them as opposed to staying here with Stan. He starts to send a text to Mike, but Stan shakes his head again.

“Don’t do that either. Just stay here.”

“So you can ignore me?”

“What do you want me to say, Bill?” Out of nowhere, Stan is out of his chair and standing toe to toe with him, head tilted up to stare into his eyes. “You want me to say that I forgive you for the accident? Or that I’m glad we kissed? Because I don’t, and I’m not.” 

“You said you loved me. Why would you say that?”

Stan shuts his eyes for a long time before he opens them again. They’re glassy with fat tears gathering on his lashes. “Because you wanted me to.”

“What the fuck does that mean? What can I do to make you forgive me?”

“Nothing,” Stan says coldly, turning away from Bill and going back over to his desk.

Not this time.

He grabs Stan’s wrist and pulls him closer. “Why not?” he hisses.

“Because I’m dead, Bill. I’m fucking dead. You killed me in that accident because you were way too drunk and you kept looking at me like a fucking idiot.”

It can’t be true. It can’t be. They still live together. Stan studies every morning. All the other losers talk about him like he’s still alive. He can’t be dead.

“I am. You. Made. Me. Up.” Stan rips himself from Bill’s grip. “You couldn’t handle the fact that you  _ fucking killed me _ , so you made me up to pretend that everything is fine. No one has the heart to tell you the truth because they want you to be able to grieve. We’re done here, Bill, you have to move on.”

“I can’t, I can’t move on. You’re not dead, you can’t be!”

He’s screaming now, he can hear his voice echoing off the walls and feel a scratchy pain in his over-exerted throat. 

Stan composes himself, grabs Bill’s shirt, and pulls himself in to press his face to his chest. Bill wraps his arms around his waist and holds tight. He feels the fabric, the warmth radiating off of his skin. This is real. It has to be real.

“You need to move on. You’re gonna stop imagining me. I’m gonna go away, Bill.”

“Please don’t.”

“I love you. You need to forgive yourself.”

“Do you forgive me?”

He tightens his grip on Stan’s waist.

“I can’t. I’m dead. But the other losers have. You just have to forgive yourself, Bill.”

Bill takes a deep breath and buries his face in Stan’s curls. Smooth. Golden. Like a halo. He takes in the faint strawberry scent like it’s the last time he ever will. It is the last time. Just a moment ago, Stan looked like he was going to cry, but it’s Bill who has tears cutting paths down his cheeks and dripping onto Stan’s hair.

“I love you, I’m sorry,” he sobs.

“I love you too, and I know. It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay.”

Then he’s gone, leaving Bill alone in the dorm room with all the dust covered belongings of a dead man.

**Author's Note:**

> Catch me on tumblr @nb-richie


End file.
